


You Can't Always Get What You Want

by windfallswest



Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2020-12-16 12:03:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21035948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windfallswest/pseuds/windfallswest
Summary: "What are we doing?" Gregor panted beneath Miles. They were lying on the floor of Gregor's private sitting room and, as was proper, quite Vorishly drunk."Iknowyou got the same Sex Talk from mother as I did, even if you did skin out of proper Betan sexual education," Miles said, a little breathless himself.





	You Can't Always Get What You Want

**Author's Note:**

> This has been hanging out on my hard drive for a while, waiting for me to finish a couple companion pieces. Posting today to celebrate my eight-year anniversary on AO3. :D
> 
> Set between _The Vor Game_ and _Ceteganda_.

"What are we doing?" Gregor panted beneath Miles. They were lying on the floor of Gregor's private sitting room and, as was proper, quite Vorishly drunk.

"I _know_ you got the same Sex Talk from mother as I did, even if you did skin out of proper Betan sexual education," Miles said, a little breathless himself. 

Miles had been a bit at loose ends at the party tonight, what with Ivan's attention wholly focussed on the by all accounts captivating Lady Donna Vorrutyer, and his own proposed date, Delia Koudelka, absent along with the rest of her family due to some kind of plumbing emergency. Miles had seemed genuinely confused as to why the entire household had—forcefully—rejected his offer of assistance and insisted he go on alone. Gregor could also understand Miles' position, however: _he'd_ much rather be helping Kou and Drou with their drains than vetting prospective Imperial brood mares and watching a bunch of fossilised politicians discuss their troubles with their own plumbing and swilling his wine. Failing that, Miles at least made much more interesting company in the breach.

"I think your father was afraid if he let me go to Beta, I'd never come back."

Gregor had retired upstairs to his private apartment as soon as he politely could. Miles followed, having rescued a bottle of the good stuff from the old geezers. They'd finished that one and half of another, sprawled on the more comfortable of the modern and comfortable couches that were, Gregor mused glumly, the only positive relicts of his breakaway spell four years ago. Somehow, they'd ended up necking. Gregor was still a little vague on how they'd wound up on the floor. Possibly he'd fallen off when Miles kissed him, a faux pas he'd remedied almost immediately by pulling Miles down on top of him.

"What, don't you like it here?" Miles' attempt at a seductive purr was somewhat spoiled by a much less suave grab at the Imperial Ass.

Gregor surged up and kissed him, which worked just as well as a vibro-knife to stop his mouth. It was an unutterable relief to him that Miles would _joke_ about it, instead of acting like mentioning it at all would send him haring off into the night again.

Gregor slid his tongue next to Miles', still definitely present and accounted for. He somehow succeeded in not thinking of Cavillo, mostly by not being able to think at all. Gregor sank wilfully into the wave of hormone-excited physical sensation, letting it swamp him. And, it had to be said, if Miles was good at one thing, it was capturing attention.

Miles was small, but not smaller than some women; although the ones Lady Alys paraded past him like heifers at a District Fair were always tall and gracefully slender. It felt almost as vulgar. What was he supposed to do, award them points?

It was incredible how much heat Miles put out; Gregor was sure that plasma-bright intensity could melt the flesh from his bones. Warm and more alive than any three people Gregor knew and unmistakeably _here, now._

Hands fumbled for belts and flies. Touch was—oh; Gregor shuddered convulsively and nearly embarrassed himself. A voice of unwanted sobriety somewhere in the back of his head—disturbingly, it sounded rather like Illyan—pointed out a potential hole in their security.

"Wait," Gregor panted, pushing Miles back gently.

Miles went, coming back into focus with messy hair, wet lips, and dark eyes. His laser-focus started to crumple, first his eyebrows compressing, then his mouth tightening, spine curling inward, weight shifting, thighs tensed to launch him away. "I'll just—"

Miles' hand had slid away from Gregor's arousal, and Gregor found himself only half-successful in swallowing a needy and disappointed whine. Before Miles could withdraw further, Gregor rolled them over, automatically careful of Miles' bones, and began unfastening the tunic of his dress greens.

"Evidence," Gregor explained. He _hated_ uniforms; there were far too many layers, and everybody wore them _all the time._

Miles, who had jerked and then stuck in a rare state of confusion at the sudden reversal of their positions, processed this quickly even in his current state, furiously spinning gears almost visible through his blown pupils. He relaxed slowly, although his hands immediately reached for Gregor's own tunic and his lips parted again on a little _ah_ of comprehension.

That was too much of an invitation to resist. They kissed intermittently, rolling around on the floor like teenagers and shedding clothes turn by turn until they were pressed together, bare. Miles was on top when Gregor's shoulder banged into the sideboard, bringing their tumbling to a halt; Gregor couldn't say he minded. He ran his hands over Miles' body, all bone and wiry muscle, nothing gone to waste.

Miles made a sound that shot through Gregor's nerves like the jolt from a shock stick and closed his hand once more around Gregor's prick. _Oh, god._ Panting, and fumbling, Gregor grasped at Miles'. It was not so much less a handful than his own, the chemicals that had so damaged Miles' bones apparently not having seriously affected the soft tissues here.

It was so hard to think, to remember how his hands worked with Miles' mouth on his, hard, calloused hands driving him past the bounds of reason. But Gregor's body seemed to know what to do all on its own, where to press and where to slide, how to move with the body riding above it—everything except how to breathe.

"Oh, god. _Gregor_," Miles gasped.

"Yes," Gregor urged him. "Yes, yes, yes."

Miles shook, spilling himself all over Gregor. The expression on his face did nothing to contradict the impression that he was flying apart at the seams.

Orgasm hit Gregor with the force of a cannon ball, so hard that when he opened his eyes again he could see a splash of come on the underside of Miles' chin.

Miles slid off of him to lie by his side on the floor. Their breathing was suddenly very loud in the empty room.

"Well. That happened," Miles said at last.

"Yes," Gregor said again. He blinked. He was almost _sure_ the room wasn't really spinning around them. "Um."

Gregor tried to decide if he felt awkward about this. Miles was correct: Betan-born Countess Cordelia Vorkosigan had indeed given him a very thorough introduction into the modern galactic understanding of human sexuality, at what had been a scandalously young age for Barryar. She'd explicitly violated her observed catalogue of Barryaran sexual mores in at least seven different ways, Gregor had later calculated, after she'd shared them with him a few years later.

"I, um, I think I needed that," he said at last.

Miles dabbed at the come on his jawline and raised his eyebrows. Gregor laughed.


End file.
